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The only child at the Easter Egg Hunt
Lacks a big enough basket
To collect the bounty all laid out
Across the rolling lawn

Those who were not allowed to run
Look sadly from outside the fence
Their empty baskets tossed aside
In hopelessness and envy.

Who painted all those pretty eggs
And who decides who gets to run
Why can’t those other little hands
Collect an egg or two

They can, you say.  Here’s two or three
For each of you, if you applaud
The Golden Child who smiles at all
In sympathy and pride

And tells you you will likely never
Be the one they choose to run
So be content with your two eggs
And never let your green eyes show.
A treatise on the haves and the have nots.
Clouds like a tumble of opaque bubbles
Spread themselves across a sky
Slowly turning pink along the edges.
The air is cool and there is no wind
The only sound is Romeo the dog
Barking in the distance.
Am I not the only walker out here
In this very early autumn morning.

The crushed rock lawns
Do not make dew, so nothing
Sparkles in the streetlights
That never let the road be midnight.
There are no lights in any houses.
Are some of them abandoned,
Waiting for the snowbirds to
Make their winter landing and
Increase the population and
The traffic on the highway.

The air is growing colder now;
My hoodie is zipped half way up;
My hands are tucked inside the sleeves.
I will not miss the scorching heat
That fried three months of sweaty walks
When five A.M. was never cooler than high noon.
It won’t be long until the heavy duty
Jogging suit comes out of the closet
And I see my breath before my face.

Walking in all seasons is a learning curve
For one who only lived in Spring
With Summer the remaining months
And storms were cause for staying home.
I am mastering the days, as now
These roads and walkways know my tread.
Love my 6 A.M.walks.
Her writing tells the fateful truth:
Strings of letters that don’t make words
In a language no one ever learned,
So small as to look like microdots.

The hand that holds the reluctant pen
Feels normal til it tries to write,
And finds it doesn’t know the words
That are painfully born on the paper.

Practice only makes it worse
As disconnected muscles try
To learn again to make an A
And how the letters go together.

Her hand is weak and clumsy
The arm and leg feel heavy
Nothing does as it is told
By a brain now somewhat broken.

Back in second grade again
She practices her penmanship
And rows and rows of numbers
In hopes of graduation day.
You can always see the lies
Through how dark their eyes
Erupting like a volcano
Ready to explode
With crocodile tears
Seeking pity

I fell in love
with Cary Grant

when I was 9 -
Christmas time.

He was being
an angel.

A celluloid angel
but an angel nonetheless.

It was just after
my sister's death.

I had always hoped
that the Angel  Grant would appear

and make her death
go away.

I waited year after year
hoping her death would

but the world

was always
the world

and held her death
within its living.

And here I am again
almost 64


To me this is the essence of my Christmas childhood and I waited each year for it to show and it would invariably do so. I prayed to the Angel Grant to come and change my world back again. But it could never be...the same again..

The Bishop's Wife, also known as Cary and the Bishop's Wife, is a Samuel Goldwyn romantic comedy feature film from 1947, starring Cary Grant, Loretta Young, and David Niven in a story about an angel who helps a bishop with his problems.
The film was adapted by Leonardo Bercovici and Robert E. Sherwood from the 1928 novel of the same name by Robert Nathan, and was directed by Henry Koster.

It was remade in 1996 as The Preacher's Wife starring Denzel Washington, Whitney Houston, and Courtney B. Vance.
 Dec 2019 Chris Neilson
annh surfed my uncertain heart,
a wind sea
of ebbs and flows;
waiting for the unbroken to break,
white water
into ocean’s

‘I think of the horizon at midnight, the sky and sea blurring together.’
- Sophie Hardcastle, Breathing Under Water
losing sleep to the skies at night
i whisper wishes on the winds to the moons light
tired x
Losing patience
As you take the smallest steps
to even smirk
You can't pay attention
Your understanding seem complex
Of my work
I need you now
Yet your gaze is somewhere else
It's too intense
Yesterday's bow
Won't be the same as today
You always say
My arms are being pulled
In opposite directions
You say you're life's dull
You're missing some affection
This cup of tea is bitter sweet
Perhaps it's time to meet
On that old bridge
And breathe together
This winter's air
And don't despair
You are enough
Life might be tough
Yet sometimes we just need
To let the days flow
Break down the speed
And let our souls glow..
Intertwined fingers
Awaiting and trembling
For your words, that soothe.
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